Chapter One: The Road In the Wood
Chapter 1 The Road In The Wood “Where the fuck did he go!” Jimmy shouted, kicking at the chairs outside the closed restaurant. “He was right fucking here!” “Giving the cops evidence we were here doesn’t help things,” Mary growled. “But how did he manage to vanish like that without us seeing him?” “I told you we should’a shot him!” Jerry barked. “Hell, anything would’ve been better than just standing around here like morons!” “I think you did get him,” I said, looking at the door. There was some liquid on the door, a yellowish-red liquid that didn’t quite look orange near the handle. “He was hit by some shrapnel, I’m sure of it.” “Then where’s he?” Mary said. “This building’s alarmed, we’d know if he was inside.” Shaking my head, I turned around to get everyone leaving when I saw something in an alley. It was only for a few seconds, but I thought I saw a scarecrow in the alley, scythe and all, pointing at me like I was gonna be next. I froze, unable to move, as the thing dragged it’s scythe across the road, bringing up a long trail of sparks behind it. My pistol dropped from my hand, and I heard the others try to yell out to me to start shooting. “You can’t come here at night, little man,” it said in a harsh whisper, as I heard the others start to fade into the background noise. “You’ll find out what’s in the dark.” The scythe was speeding towards my face when Jerry grabbed it and pulled the freak towards him. Mary was on the thing with her knife in an instant, stabbing it’s neck and back. Slapping myself out of the trance, I grabbed my gun and shoved it to the thing’s sack covered face, putting three rounds into it, the monster dropping into a heap of gangly arms and legs. “The fuck happened to you?” I heard Mary shout, as sirens approached in the distance. I couldn’t speak, I just looked into the dead things eyes, shoving the pistol into them. “Don’t ever show me my daughter like that again,” I said, pulling the trigger before running with the others. As the hunters ran, a gangly armed figure emerged from the shadows, reaching down to touch the body, turning it back into a small doll. After two hours it stopped raining and in the same moment the spell broke, which Peroquet and the Admiral and Captain Jumeau knew by a curious twist of their senses, as if they had tasted a string quartet, or been, for a moment, deafened by the sight of colour blue. ― Susanna Clarke, '' Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell '' What exactly is a fairy? There are so many differing terms and definitions of the monsters that no one really knows what to expect. Then there’s the fact of how relatively few there are. Vampires get attention because they literally suck the life from a city or town. Werewolves are a sign that things have quite literally gone to the dogs, and witches are too powerful for anyone to trust to do the right thing for any amount of time. So why even bother with a bunch of freaks with flowers for hair and bronze clippings for fingernails? Well, that’s the problem. Those flowers in their hair smell good, don’t they? So good that you just want to spend every waking minute around them. Or maybe you just like guys with a really animalistic bent to themselves, huh? Like your girls a little more rough around the edges than most? All that and more with fairies, at a price you don’t even know you’re paying. What happened to those memories of the vacation you took with your wife to Vermont? Who are these kids that keep calling themselves you children? Did you even remember where your mother raised you? And why are your moods swinging so violently lately? Or are they even moods at all, when you can find the energy to have them? And what about your dreams? Can you even have dreams anymore? Medieval Times The most stories you’ll hear about the fae and their machinations come from Europe, specifically those two islands in the north Atlantic that can’t help but fight with each other and themselves. Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales, all have stories and legends of the Fair Folk inhabiting their lands, both above and underneath the ground. Other nations of course have their own tales, but for some reason, these four have become the most famous. Ireland alone has become almost synonymous with fairies, from the wee leprechauns that have become mascots to the world of the glories of sugared cereals and booze, to mighty horned gods that were soon found and taken up by neo-pagans who wanted something different from the usual crystal gazing crowd. Is there really, then, something under the Emerald Isle’s green hills? In the Middle Ages, such beliefs were all too real, an entire class, the druids, devoted to keeping the traditions of tribute to such creatures intact for future generations. Until the arrival of Christianity, the druids held a place of reverence in Ireland’s kingdoms, for only they knew what pleased the mighty beings that lived just out of sight, unraveling their almost unknowable whims and wants. Even in mainland Europe, traditions of nature spirits and gods of the woods kept their place, even in the face of the iron hand of the Church. Offerings of harvests and animals, and at times even human lives, were given to these creatures, and hunters did little. After all, many of the hunter conspiracies that came before the Renaissance were polytheistic themselves, and felt that a group worshipping some invisible forest god was less important than hunting down the shape changer that was breeding like mad, or the blood drinker ruling half an empire in the shadows. In this climate, with such confusion, the fae practically survived untouched, only a token few daring to stand against them, whether by design, or by sheer chance. In its rise to prominence, though, the Church taught against the dangers of fairies, saying that new born children and women who had just given birth were susceptible to fairy machinations, in danger of being stolen away and replaced with simulacrums that were not quite perfect. This led to interesting encounters when missionaries traveled those parts of Europe still under the sway of paganism and polytheism. Under the Mounds Transcribed from Medieval Celtic Parchment by the Malleus Maleficarum, 521 A.D. “As we missionaries worked inland, we continued to encounter pagan traditions in the native peoples. Stone sculptures dotted the landscape, surrounding the small mounds that dotted the land. When asked, the locals told of small creatures that would appear from the hills, wreaking havoc and stealing their children and women.” “The chief of the tribe I encountered, a great brute of a man covered in the peculiar tattoos of his people, told me the daemons demanded a tribute. Each night an offering of milk and meat was left at the mound, each morning the bowls empty. And once a year, in the celebration the pagans call Samhain, they are told to leave an offering of child at the mound. I told them that the reason for such events was the animals of the fields, wild dogs who took from the villagers who were these ‘fae’, and they were told not to leave such offerings anymore, that they should instead become focused on giving thanks to God almighty, and must set to work building a proper church and house of worship. Satisfied in my duties, I set to explaining what the Church expected, and was given a place to sleep for the night.” “I awoke to the sounds of a great wailing in the village by the rising sun, and ran out to see the chief of the village laying in a circle of blood, the great man himself somehow fused with the bodies of a wild dog and cat, his face a strange grimace of pain and joy. When pressed, I had discovered that the headmen of the village saw the chief drawn outside by a woman of unimaginable beauty. As they gathered their weapons to protect their chief, he had vanished, the smell of rotted flesh and waste left behind. I then realized the power the daemons had over this place, and decided then to exorcise the land.” “The villagers being simple farmers, I called on the seven escorts I had been given by the archbishop, to give the villagers a measure of protection. In the name of the Lord, God, we went about the village, destroying their idols and finding the heathen witches that dared to call themselves holy men. A great fire was started in the village center, the idols and pagans burned to cleanse the village of the Devil worship that was found.” “That night, I awoke, at what I believe to be the Lord’s warning, to what any man would see as a woman of unearthly beauty and grace, floating into my chambers in the moonlight. But I was guided by God, and saw instead a creature of the Devil, the daemon possessed of a visage made of flesh like that of an animal, eyes wild and a nose sniffing at the air in the hut. I saw blood on her arms, and knew that my guards had been felled by the beast. I would pray for them after I had dealt with the monster.” “You dare to steal from me my worshippers,’ she said, daring to draw her hand down my cheek. I felt my mind cloud and fall, but I prayed to the Lord for guidance, and my mind cleared in an instant. ‘What authority has you to do so, foolish man?” “That which is given to me by the Lord, God almighty,’ I answered, rising in my bed. Despite the darkness, I could see her clearly, the moonlight gathering around her. ‘I come in the footsteps of Patrick, to cleanse this land of it’s pagan traditions. You, a succubus of the Devil, a being made to tempt the hearts of men, you shall cast back into the depths of that dark hole, to rot with your ruler who dared to go against God’s message.” “The creature stared at me for a minute, as if trying to decide whether or not I was worthy of it’s wrath. Quietly, I prayed, and as the words left my lips, the creature let out a great shriek, covering it’s ears and writhing on the ground like a snake. Realizing that it could not stand the sound of such righteousness, I pressed my prayers, the noise of the villagers roused bringing me heart. The headmen reached my hut first, and running inside, found me praying over the creature, as it’s body of animal hide and moonlight was shrinking, withering as smoke erupted from it’s mouth and eyes. The monster kept fading, until I pressed my cross to it, a creation for me by my brother, a blacksmith who forged it from the strongest iron. Pressing it into her head, I finished my prayer, as it’s head crumbled into dust, swiftly followed by the rest of it’s body.” “The entire village converted after, and many have sought to become fellow wearers of the cloth. The mound has since been destroyed, to prevent any more daemonic incursions, so that the light of the Lord might shine ever brighter. I, for my part, will continue on, to search out other such villages under the sway of the daemons.” Story Seeds: Emerald Isle Fae and Ireland go together like drinking and Ireland. It’s a part of the culture inseparable from it’s popular depictions, and in this case, all the more true. Even in the age of science and technologies’ conquering of the known world, rural villages still keep their traditional stances, honoring the “wee folk” that live in the fairy mounds and rings across the island. Surely it’s all just folklore, though. Tell that to the monsters who still demand tribute. Plenty of villages, not just in Ireland but around the world don’t like to talk about it, but they still need someone in the village to keep the tributes up. Because as much as the Catholic Church likes to ignore it, there are still a few “snakes” left in these areas, and unluckily for the people living there, more than a few have woken up to find out the old ways are being replaced. It’s time to remind the people of the pledges and contracts they made centuries past. How do you protect a people from a contract no lawyer can get out of? Story Seed: Holy Hell That priest probably thought he was doing the village a favor in ridding it of it’s fae master, but what he left out of his report back to the archbishop was that a few days later the village wells became dry, and the animals sickly. The local priests tried to pray for aid, but eventually the villagers gave up and ran, leaving the abandoned village to the elements. Until three years ago. Then a team of workers found the scattered remains of the village and now the entire area is an archaeological site, students running to and fro, carrying the few idols that survived the missionary purge. Then one of those idols passed where the fairy mound used to be. Now all hell’s broken loose. It started slow, just a few malfunctions with the machines and generators, but now people are getting sick, and others are talking about the woman appearing in their sleep. What exactly is it running over the dig site? If the priest really did destroy a fairy, then who is the monster driving the students and teachers to madness? And what kind of deal did the old fairy make with the people that kept the land fertile? The Age of Discovery With the travels of brave explorers in the early 15th century, mankind started to push until then unknown boundaries, pushing through the world to find so many new people, creatures and discoveries. Stories flooded back to Europe. Columbus told of men without heads, of foot-men and cyclops, though they were soon found false. Other discoveries, like that of giant horned horses, or snakes that were as large as a man, were soon proven true. Then came tales of great apes, like men but not like men, of great lizards that could kill with but a single bite. Forests where the rain never stopped, and where the sun never shone, even in the middle of the day. With this new age, mankind’s mastery over the planet was practically guaranteed. But there were still places they needed to learn of. The sea itself, the method of mankind’s mastery, was still an unknown, giant serpents sighted bringing down whole ships, if it wasn’t a giant octopus or squid attacking the sailors. But then there are the tales that just sound downright insane. Across the Seas Journal found by the Loyalists of Thule, dated 1549 A.D. “We were three days out from Coppenhagen when we first heard their songs. We thought they were simply a few noises made by the creatures of the sea. After all, the great whales made songs often, and the men found them a break from the monotony of life aboard. But this song was far too human to be of any comfort, and I ordered that the music be avoided. The helmsman complied, but I did not miss the look of discomfort on his face, sorrow on leaving the song behind on our voyage to the Indies.” “Three days later, the singing came again in the night, and I awoke to find us eight miles out of position. The helmsman, it seemed, was leading us towards the voices. When we tried to grab him away from the helm, he gripped it like a man possessed and we were forced to knock him unconscious before we were able to right the ship back on course. Angered, I ordered the helmsman be lashed, doing the duty myself. But I saw in his eyes, as the lash opened his back, that he was smiling through the pain, lost in his mind.” “Putting him to work tending the sails, the time lost was made up quickly, and we reached the coast of Africa to resupply. Setting off again, I thought we were rid finally of the songs, and the former helmsman even started to return to some semblance of sanity. Until we had reached the midpoint of our journey, and the singing started again.” “Quickly I ordered my first mate to loose the sails, to catch as much wind as possible. But looking up, we saw the linesmen lax at their posts, the helmsman somehow spreading his madness to the others. I sent others up to wrench them from their posts, and down on deck, they quickly regained their senses. Except for the helmsman. Bringing him down, I saw in his eyes that all sense had left him. As a matter of enforcement to the rest of the crew, I flogged him again and put him in the brig, and made the voyage forward.” “By the grace of God, we made the rest of the journey without incident, and filled our holds with silks and spices that would fetch fine prices back in Denmark. The men were in high spirits, and for a day I allowed them to partake of the pleasures that the Indies had to offer. I and the first mate alone watched over the ship and helmsman. Despite the pleasures that awaited us inland, I was focused solely on the poor sailor, a man of many voyages at the helm of the ship I commanded. His eyes were clouded, his mouth working silently. I looked to the first mate, who shook his head.” “Finished in the Indies, we set off, back to our homes and families. The wind backed our sails the entire journey, and we made excellent time back to the West of Africa, the crew convinced the voices were merely a trick of the wind, joking and laughing about them as they made their plans to go ashore with their money. I wanted so dearly to take part in their cheer, but both I and my first mate found ourselves still preoccupied with the helmsman, who had not slept since we left port.” “Then came the final nights of our long voyage, and the greatest danger. As we neared the Canary Islands, the unearthly singing returned at night, loudest and closest to the boat. The men roused themselves this time, myself only awakening to the sound of musket fire, the cannons firing into the ocean. Running to the quarter deck, I saw the first mate leading the fight. ‘What has happened?’ I shouted over the fight.” “The watch spotted them coming in by the stern, by sheer chance,’ he said, reloading his pistol. ‘They heard the singing, and saw them on the waves.’ I ran to where he was pointing, and were it not for the men’s fighting, I would have sworn them but the addled mind I had gained during the voyage.” “They were like women, but not like women, creatures I had heard tell, called ‘mermaids’ by the English sailors, women of half-fish, half human bodies, with the ability to tempt men right from the decks. By a miracle or by their own memories of the Indies my sailors managed to fight their temptations, but only by sheer chance was I able to see them for what they really were, in spite of the English stories.” “Their bodies, almost serpentine, were grotesque and covered in terrible scales. Their faces, despite being human like, were angled like a fish, with rows of jagged teeth inside. Their eyes had no lids, and were slits, like that of a cat. Their webbed hands were savagely clawed, using them to climb the hull to the rail. Our gaff hooks and cutlasses were all that saved us.” “Then, in the din of the battle, I heard a voice singing, and instantly the creatures were placated. Looking back, I saw the helmsman, freed of his shackles by simply wrenching them from the walls, the iron chains dragging behind him. His eyes were still clouded, but he sang out the song, words I dare not commit to any page, for fear they will drive others to his state when heard. With a roar, he dove over the side, the creatures swarming over him, their inhuman screams still heard.” “Quickly, I ordered the ship put to full sail, and we left the battle, the waters still churning as we moved away. I ordered the men not look back, as I did not want them to see anything more, but I did, and did the first mate. What we saw was a watery hand, reaching up from the ocean itself, pulling down on the waves, until they were crushed underneath.” “Even as I write down the tale, the men have left the ship for new employ. The first mate has hung himself, and I feel I shall soon join him. The madness we witnessed was too much for his mind, I see, and I will soon join him in his merciful silence. For I dare never sail again, knowing what lurks beneath the waves.” Story Seed: Beyond the Sea The Hedge is a funny thing, isn’t it? Anywhere there’s a door, a fairy can open the Hedge right up. There are even natural occurrences sometimes-a group of sorry bastards walking right into a thorny patch of what they think is forest. Until the wolf-things come out to play. But what about the sea? Over two thirds of the world, and we barely know a thing about it. So what do the fae do with the sea? What happens to the ships that vanish like a puff of smoke? The sailors on the USS Cyclops might know, if they still had the mouths to speak. And the sailors who found themselves lost in the Sargasso Sea would be able to tell you about the seaweed that actually had thorns on it, if they weren't now a permanent fixture of that tangled underwater forest. The point is simple enough; the Hedge can appear anywhere and everywhere, even in the middle of the oceans. What happens when your cell goes out looking for sea monsters, only to find a group of people literally walking on water? Story Seed: Seaman’s Stories When it comes to the fae, folklore is more than valuable, it can be a lifesaver. After all, look at the tales of mermaids. They call, they tempt, they draw lonely sailors into the depths of lust and over the sides of their boats, right into the jaws of oblivion, it not the mermaid’s herself. So when your cell comes across a story of a mermaid running about in your territory, you read, do your research, and arm up. Only to find the remains of a better equipped cell pulling themselves out of the water, shouting the old stories are fakes, that the monsters aren’t affected by what you were told would work. But the other cell thinks they know what can, and ask your cell to help. Can you trust them at all? Or do you do your own research into what the monsters really might be? Could you even trust your own research anymore? Trails Blazed By the 1700s, North America and large swathes of Asia were being charted out by “discoverers” of the lands they found, planting flags and claiming ownership. Often, though, they were met by the people and groups living on those lands already, with their own governments, traditions, and legends. But the explorers in North America couldn’t stop, because behind them were hordes of immigrants flooding the continent, hungry for land and growing room. More often than not, they ran right into the lands of the Amerindian tribes that had already lived on those lands for generations, who were more than a little worried about the white men coming on to their lands saying it was now theirs. Of course, the explorers had technology on their side, coupled with numbers. A tribe of a few hundred can only hold out for so long against a horde of US Cavalry bolstered by Irish and Italian immigrants from the old countries. Of course, there were problems even the cavalry couldn’t face up against. While the spirit world was usually handled by the shapechangers that resided in the tribes, more often than not, the legends of the native peoples were handled by humans alone. River Monsters Transcribed from the files of Null Mysteriis, dated 1766 A.D. “The Seneca tribe living on the river called the Genessee possess a most curious tale that they constantly relate to the visitors their tribe take in. As we were coming off the river on the fourth night of our journey among the people, I noticed our native guides grow uneasy, hurriedly taking their boats from the water and stealing away into the forests. I asked our guide, Jean-Pierre, a half-born of a French trader and Mohawk bride, why they moved so quickly. “It is the river,” he told me. “They fear what lives inside it, a creature they say will kill them.” Knowing the reputation of creatures in the land was less than amicable towards man’s encounters, I kept pace with him, finally passing through the palisades of the village as the sun set beneath the trees. The tribe welcomed me as a friend, my cloth and tools fetching fine furs and skins.” “As with their peculiar style of rule, the Seneca let their eldest women interact with me primarily, though they eyed Jean-Pierre with suspicion. His French blood did not bode well with them after their wars with the French, but I stated that I would handle any indiscretion he may commit in the village. Satisfied for the time, the trade continued, though I could not shake from my mind the looks of fear on the men’s faces. Daring to ask, I looked to the oldest woman, the tribe’s leader in dealing with outsiders, and asked why the tribe feared the village so.” “The woman looked at me with eyes like those on a hawk, scanning me well with a disdain borne from probably many a dealing with outsiders who were less than trustworthy. Nodding, which I took to see as an indicator of my trustworthiness, she spoke.” “It is a legend from the time before men knew to speak,’ she said, the longhouse suddenly quiet. ‘Before the white man came to the distant shores and before even the people knew to build the longhouse. They call themselves the gahonga, spirits of the rocks and the river.’ The entire longhouse had gone silent now, as the old woman went on, her wrinkled face hard set, her eyes rock steady in their gaze. ‘The gahonga are the guardians of the river, protecting it, nurturing it. Any man who dares to wrong the river wrongs the gahonga.” “I looked at the old woman, and the longhouse as a whole. The native tales and superstitions always held some sway, but to see the very real fear in their eyes reminded me of how uneducated and sorry they were, for their ways, while valuable for survival in the forests and rivers in the area, allowed no chance for them to learn about the world they lived in, woefully under developed as a people.” “I told them I would prove their superstitions false, and bade Jean-Pierre accompany me to the river. The natives begged me to stay, but the old woman told them to hold their grasping hands. ‘If the white man wants to die, so be it. His quest will be in vain.’ Smiling at my own bravado, I looked a Jean-Pierre, who to my shock, sat where he was. ‘I would rather sit with my enemies than risk a death by spirits.’ Shaking my head, I left without him, making my way by torch back to the water.” “Still cursing Jean-Pierre’s foolishness, I made my way back to the river, and for a brief time, thought I had found the cause of the native fear. By the night, the clear river made the fish beneath the water reflect the moonlight, shimmering just beneath the surface. Looking around, I saw many of the rocks nearby also reflecting the moon, their mosses acting as the perfect “mirror”, if one would. Satisfied I could convince at least Jean-Pierre to come back and support my discovery to the natives, I went to leave when I heard the sound of footsteps on the banks. Turning, I lowered my torch, and let out a gasp.” “A creature, looking to be made of rocks, stepped out to the banks, surrounded by smaller creatures, like fireflies, but smaller, and faster, their light constant. The brute at first seemed not to notice me, and quickly I doused the torch in the water. That, however, drew the thing’s attentions, and he stormed across the river towards me. Drawing my pistol, I fired at it, but the ball had no effect other than making the monster angrier. I knew my knife would do nothing against the brute, but I drew it still, along with the only tool I had not managed to trade off, an iron hammer. The brute roared at me, but I roared back, remembering that to stand ones ground in the face of such beasts meant better chances of making it back to one’s home.” “The insects flew away into the night, leaving the great brute and myself alone. As he stormed across the river, I stood my ground, determined to fight even if it were my last. A wiser man would run, but I could not, for I had to prove the foolishness of the natives. Waiting until the towering beast made it to my shore, I went to stab it, watching the steel blade break as it made contact with it’s hide. I barely had time to gasp before a mighty hand sent me flying backwards. I gathered my wits in time enough to use the hammer to hit the massive hand that was about to engulf my entire head.” “To my shock, the creature reared back, clutching at it’s hand. Looking at the hammer, I realized that I had hit a creature of rock-hard hide with a blunt object. With careful approach, I dodged the monster, hitting it again on the back. It arched backwards, screaming in pain. In the moonlight, I could see that where I had hit the monster, the hide had turned a brilliant red, like that of when a man brushes against a poisonous plant. I still, at the time, did not realize the cause, but I kept fighting the monster, until finally, I placed a great blow on it’s head, the creature falling onto the cold earth. Winded and near collapse, I could not sate my curiosity, and put the hammer atop the monster. It’s skin steamed, and I realized that the hammer was a sort of bane to the creature. I now believe that the knife, made of steel, had lost some crucial piece of it’s nature in the process, while the simple iron hammer had won the day due to it’s less advanced making.” “Running back to the village, I announced my kill loudly, claiming that I had managed to give the people a body to study. Seeing my wounds and my eyes, the old woman of the village sent me with her finest warriors and trackers, Jean-Pierre amazed to see me alive. On return to the river, however, I lost heart, for the body had disappeared. But the trackers did vindicate my claim, for they said a great beast had been felled near the bank. They begged me for the hammer, but I had decided to keep it for myself. I still seek out another such monster, to test against it again whether or not the hammer had any kind of special property.” “Thomas Jacobs” Story Seed: Campfire Stories Many a hunter has noticed that a fairies in the real world love stepping into the stories and legends set up by humans. It’s like fairies are almost drawn into being part of a story, both to use as a cover, and because it seems to give them some kind of purpose. Maybe having lost their own lives, they seek to find new ones in the stories they heard in life? A cell of hunters from out of town is about to find out the hard way. Coming in with video cameras and claims of “blowing the lid off things”, they say they want to film the local legend on your turf, the one about the goat-man who lives near the abandoned mines. Normally, you’d just let them go on their way and watch as they kill themselves. But that particular legend involves the goat-man killing anyone who knows of his existence. Can you stop them from their own zeal? And what if they do succeed? You can’t protect everyone with access to the Internet from the goat-man, can you? Story Seed: Lay of the Land The fairies know the land, too well for many hunters to like, in many cases. You thought you had one cornered in a warren the last night, but the damn thing managed to escape and run for it, leaving you and your cellmates to explain your “late night hunt” to the cops. If it weren’t for your contact in the department, there would’ve been jail time and a court date. As it is, you’re stuck with community service. Still, it’s stuck in your craw that the fairy managed to escape like that without any sign it was getting away. You went back when you had the time, and saw that the thing had actually dug a tunnel through the ground to escape. Then your friend said it hadn’t dug the tunnel. The tunnel had opened for the fairy. How did that happen? And can you stop the fairy before it decides it wants to get back at you for the other night? Modern Times After the sad case of Bridget Cleary in 1895, belief in fairies waned for a time, though the case of the Cottingley Fairies stirred attention back to old folklore in 1920. For the most part, though, the idea that fairies were real faded around the time witchcraft stopped being taken seriously as a danger and when monsters on film were less frightening than the evils man had just unleashed during the Great War. For hunters, that just meant there was a lull in the Vigil on the front with fairies. Yes, on occasion, a fairy hut was found and burned, or a group of fairies were found and killed, but for the most part, fairies were less important than the vampires using crime as a cover and witches creating cults everywhere. Added to the fact that iron was practically everywhere in modern life, and hunters thought that fairies had finally been defeated by man without mankind ever knowing it. Yet it was never the case all over the world. Records from hunter groups in Japan detail oni, mountain dwelling ogres who were known to cause disaster and destruction wherever they went, to say nothing of the cost in human lives. Creatures called the diwata were recorded by Malleus missionaries in the Philippines as “dethroned gods, hungering against for the worship now rightfully given to God, using trickery and evil to attempt to tempt the faithful away.” But even monsters can travel, and the mass immigrations of the 19th and 20th centuries scattered ancient fairies everywhere, particularly fairies bound or “watching over” a particular family. Once again, the Irish were connected, their scattering in the face of famine, revolution and oppression also gave ample chance for the fairies of the British Isles to flee their “homes” as well, finding new and fertile ground around the world. Records from an Ascending Ones cell in Rio de Janeiro reported seeing two factions of fairies fighting in the slums, one faction with features similar to the natives, another with more European features. Brooklyn and Boston were filled with leprechauns and imps running rampant, and until the locals could stop them, many homes were destroyed and many dreams lost, with never a pot of gold found to their credit. Bronx Beatdown Record given to the Sons of Cú Chulainn, 1923 A.D. “Pat was the one who found the hole they were hiding in, the wee monsters using the basement as their hiding place for the stolen goods and children. He’d been clawed up pretty well, though, and we left him with the doctor with the story of animal attack before setting off. The doctor only said that it was the most dangerous wild dog attack he’d ever seen.” “We asked Leary to keep his buddies in blue away while we went to work, we knew what would happen if the cops showed up, the little bastards would escape. The building was abandoned, so we were able to get to the door without worrying about looking suspicious. Colm was able to break the lock, and we sped inside, throwing the few drunks and hobos inside out to the street. Kenny was at the basement first, but then the floor gave way, and he fell into a pit of wooden spikes. I guess it was a mercy that one went through his throat, the others didn’t have to hear any screams or pleas for help.” “Colm broke through the basement door, and just barely missed being hit by a little monster carrying an old musket. ‘Get away, you men!’ one of them shouted. Despite being the tallest of the group, the fucker was a good two feet shorter than me. ‘This is a doorway for them, they’ll be able to come freely if you stop us!’” “I just shot the little bastard with my revolver, the others rushing in, breaking the mirrors like our grandparents taught us. The little monsters just watched in shock, as we broke the doors and mirrors in the rooms, breaking them or putting the raw iron in front of them. Finished with our work, I looked over to see the leader of the bunch bleeding out on the floor, his blood a sickly yellow. ‘You…you knew?’ he said, the others parting at I approached. ‘How?’” “Family secret,’ I answered, firing another bullet into his head. ‘There, one of yours for one of ours. And in exchange for not killing you all, we demand that you all leave the city known as New York, including the Island of Manhattan, for a period of no less than four hundred years.’ The little bastards got moving right then, running out the door and up the stairs, out of the building, and I knew, out of the city for good. As they left one turned back “You have your deal,” she spat on the floor “and much good may it do you. After what you did you’d be fools to stay.” We grabbed Kenny’s body before we left, and to be sure of it all, we lit the building, watching from a distance as the fire worked up from the basement, destroying any door or window left. We buried Kenny later, after making sure it was really him. Despite all our tricks, we couldn’t make the corpse break down into anything else than a body.” Story Seed: Conflicting Tales The fairies seem to revel conflict. Entire fae armies have been created, each one battling the other for permanent supremacy, while smaller social units skirt each other’s territory and tempt their enemies into starting the first fight. But even these battles appear to be smaller fights, because every changeling captured tells of bigger enemies, bigger threats looming just beyond the veil of reality. They call them the Gentry, and the changelings say that they’re nothing in comparison to these “lords” of the fairies. So, when a fairy “lord” comes to your cell, he’s not a monster at all. No horns, no cruel words, just a question for help. Seems some changelings keep stealing his “possessions” and wants your help in getting them back. In return, he’ll completely destroy another cell of competition, whose methods you feel are less than desirable. You can’t argue that he seems powerful, and the changelings are bastards indeed. But can you really sell out another cell of hunters when you know you’re giving them to a monster? Story Seed: Gentle-Fae The Fair Folk, the Gentry, they go by quite a few names, the self-proclaimed rulers of the land fairies claim they were taken to. Some of the fairies say they’re evil. Others say they’re the best rulers anyone anywhere could ask for, bar none. Maybe hunters would have their own opinions, if the freaks came out to play often enough. Well it looks like your city’s getting the chance. A ruler calling himself Master of All Knowledge, Keeper of Darkest Secrets, Guardian of the Greatest Challenges, and Lord of the Dance is coming to town from the chatter. Even the werewolves and vampires seem quiet, meaning that this thing is big. But the bad fairies, the ones who keep causing trouble, they’re fucking terrified, meaning now’s the perfect time to hit’em. But just how bad is this fairy, anyway? And why would he be interested in your city at all? The Boy Who Never Grew Up Lucifuge Report, Received 1940 AD My Lady, As you by now know, I have been on the run from both the Nazi agents sent to kill me, and the British intelligence trying to interrogate me, if not study me. I hide as best I can, sneaking out to keep up on the pace of the war. I pray the Allied forces can end the madness I have seen. The Devil himself would be hard pressed to devise such evil as I have seen at Auschwitz and Dachau. As I have made my way through the London slums, bombed and still smoking, I have noticed a curious sight. Groups of children, running through the ruins and through the alleyways, stealing torn clothing and pieces of jewels. I could make sense of the clothing, as such poor orphans would recognize the need for warmth, but the jewels I could not fathom. Possibly to pawn off, for money that would buy them food, but the British rationing made that an impossibility. And for children so young to know about the criminal markets struck me as odd, though not impossible. Following them, I found that they all seemed to gather heavily near the Kensington Gardens, the patrolling local authorities seemingly oblivious to them. Curious, yes, that such children were able to move so close to a royal residence without issue. Worried, I followed closely, knowing that I would be able escape whatever problems would arise with Franz’s aid. The guards of the property, frankly, were more worried about threat from the air than from land. I was able to see the children more clearly in the night starlight. Their clothes seemed to shift as they went deeper into the garden, from torn rags and shirts to loincloths and animal hides. They almost started to march, prideful and strong in their destitute glory. They carried on their shoulders food and sacks of flour from the bombed houses, others carrying small knives and arrows. One seemed to have a small pistol, some heirloom from a family that would think it destroyed. I feared that something was raising and army within England, my Lady, and so I set it on myself to stop such madness. To use children for such things, deplorable, below even the Nazis and their sickness. I summoned Franz, and followed them closely. The children congregated at a statue, a small figure atop it, playing a flute, as smaller figures moved around the bottom. I dared not move closer yet, for I would not risk the children without cause. As I observed, the children seemed to chant, softly at first, but gaining volume and momentum. “Peter, Peter, come and play, we’ve gathered for you well this day. Peter, Peter, come out tonight, join us in a jolly fight.” On and on the chanting went, and I feared that the children would summon the guards. Yet no one raised alarm, or fired into their ever growing circle. As they chanted, I heard what was like metal groaning, being formed and shaped. I found my eyes drawn to the statue, the small boy atop it starting to move, the other figures leaping off and singing praise at him as well. The figure jumped down suddenly, his flesh like skin and his clothes a bright green. He played his flute loudly, dancing about, the children cheering in ecstasy. I suddenly felt as though I was witnessing something forbidden, a barred participant in this heathen ritual. “Good job, Lost Boys,” he shouted, giving a loud crow like a rooster. “Now that we have all this, we can fight tonight! Those fools at the stump don’t realize what they’re going up against tonight!” the children cheered again, working up into a frenzy. I knew not what “stump” they were talking about, but the children were being sent off to be killed, and that was something I would not stand idly by and watch. I ordered Franz to draw the attention of the soldiers nearby, as I followed the children to their battle. Their leader flew above them, playing his flute and crowing loudly. Clearly, some enchantment was keeping their voices contained from the rest of the world, as even a deaf man could hear such revelry. I did my best to keep hidden, though I would be a fool to think that the boy leading them had not realized my presence. It struck, then, that he might not even care. The target of their march soon came into sight, a gnarled stump carved with figures and small wooden statues of the very wood, made to look like the fairies of stories and children’s tales. As they jumped to life, another group of children formed opposite the first, two armies matched and ready to fight. To see this, knowing that the children had already lost everything, to be forced to fight for mad creatures, that was too much. I stood up from my cover and shouted, “No more, Peter!” Both factions froze before they could commence their battle, staring at me with revulsion. Truly, I had disturbed something unholy, for the children started to inch back, fearful of punishment or some other adult means of keeping them in line. But the boy with the flute continued to laugh, flying up to me and dancing on the air above my head. “And who do you think you are, Frenchman?” he asked, laughing without care at the fact he had been discovered. “Are you fighting with the stump, or fighting with me and my lost boys?” He waved his hand, and three small girls ran up to me, holding treasures and jewels from a dozen bombed homes. “I can make sure you get whatever you want, just fight for me!” “He can offer you but paltry gifts and trinkets!” the leader of the other faction shouted, a small elf with wrinkled ears and a face not unlike a victim of hellfire. “We can give you what a man truly desires in life!” Parting the children, he bade a woman to step forward, her face ashen and sullied, tears forming at the edges of her eyes. On seeing me, though, her face lit up, as though a new hope had been put into her heart. “Fight with us, and you shall have a bride for the rest of your days!” “Why are you both using children in your battles?” I asked, ignoring both offers, but still edging close to the woman. “Surely they are no true fighters, worse even than dogs in war.” “What’re you talking about?” the boy said, ceasing his dancing and floating down to the ground in front of me, as I put myself between him and the woman. “Are you saying there are better ways to have fun?” “You tell me this is a sport?” I asked. No longer could I consider him a boy, for his actions betrayed a worse foe than I had wanted. He was no young wizard or magic user, and not a child of our own diabolical lineage. This boy was truly evil, no morality except what he decided for himself. “What of the children who fall in battle then? What would happen to them?” “As long as I stay alive, who cares what happens?” Peter said, the “lost boys” shouting in agreement. Carefully, I looked at their faces, and realized theirs was a false enthusiasm. For all their cheers and shouts, their eyes had a much darker story. You could see that some longed for death, others were fearful of the creature in front of me. Looking back at the woman, I saw the same face, a life fooled into servitude to powers beyond her reasoning. “Do you even know who I am?” he asked, like he was genuinely shocked that I had no knowledge of his existence. “No, nor will I care,” I said, grabbing his neck. For all his magic and flight, he still had the body of a small boy. He tried to fly away, as his “army” broke from their trance and scattered into the gardens. Peter looked down in shock, but I held my grip firm, though the added weight of my female companion made it even harder for him to lift off, her hands wrapped aroudn my right leg. It was when I heard the shouting of men from below, accompanied by rifle fire, that I knew Franz had accomplished his task. I dared give a smile, but as I did, I turned away from the boy, and we fell hard into a tree, the branches breaking most of our fall, along with my ankle. The only sign that I had been strangling anything at all was the golden powder covering my palms. “You really stepped in it this time,” Franz growled, climbing up to meet me, the woman scurrying away from Franz, an unholy terror in her eyes. “Those guards are going mad looking for more intruders!” “Then off we must be,” I said, sending Franz away, giving the woman my coat to get her safely away. It took the rest of the night, but we escaped safely, hopefully without fear of recapture. I sent her to a local Anglican mission, where I hope she may put her terror behind her one day. My Lady, we must ensure that no more children would be indentured into such hellish servitude. Surely we must have allies inside the British royal house, to prevent such kidnappings from ever happening again. The children of London must be made safe from these monsters. Sincerly, C. Theleme Story Seed: Clap Your Hands if you Believe You hear something; the fairies really can’t affect you, it’s all just the power of suggestion. You don’t believe it at first, because that fire you nearly got engulfed with last week felt pretty damn real, but then you see this one guy just tell a fairy flat out in the middle of a fight that it couldn’t shock him with lightning. You even saw the fairy try to kill that man, and fail. Is there some truth to the rumor then? Or is it a con by the monsters to kill as many hunters as they can? Story Seed: Loyal to No-One? So let’s say your cell knows that the changelings aren’t really the fairies you’ve been told about. Fair enough, you think, they just need to hide out and keep quiet. But you start hearing about disappearances in their area of town, involving mothers and their young babies. They keep saying it’s a loyalist among them, a traitor who will always be loyal to the fairies beyond the veil of reality. But their “investigation” is taking too long. Maybe you need to remind them what happens when the monsters step out of line in this town. Russian Front Archived by the Loyalists of Thule, originally found by the members of a Russian Union cell after the author was found desiccated in his own home, 1942 A.D. “22nd February. The men and I found an abandoned farmhouse just outside of Smolensk. I feel fortunate there was no one inside, for the men have been tired and in need of an outlet. I have tried to follow my orders to scout for enemy forces trying to pass the lines, but I feel now that command has just led us on a chase for shadows. Still, we will do our duty, for to fail may mean death. One thing of interest, we found strange tracks in the forest. Yodorovski said they were of no animal he had ever seen, but did mention they were fresh, at least three days past. Still, it is of no importance to us. We press forward.” “28th February. We found the bodies of some Germans in a thicket of trees. There had obviously been a struggle, since there were signs of a scuffle between the men. Each was riddled with bullet holes, the symbol for the SS on their collars. I smiled at the sight, of the bastard SS getting a just fate, but Yodorovski pointed out that there were plenty of bullets in the bodies, but no shell casings on the forest floor. I can’t be bothered to think about this now, I have to focus on finding the other SS that probably made it into the forests.” “2nd March. I fear committing this to paper, but I must write what I saw. We found a farm, deserted, and made our way forward to investigate when Menshov spotted the tracks again. Calling Yodorovski over, I ordered the rest of the men to investigate the house for food. Yodorovski said the tracks were fresh, at most a day old. Then the men called from the house, and we ran. As we can up, I could see from the angle I was at that the roof of the house had been crushed in. I wish I could write collapsed, but the truth is that it was crushed. But I noticed shadows in the barn, and went inside. I still regret my decision.” “Inside, the bodies of the animals were still standing, and at first, I thought them merely asleep. They looked thin, starved, the skin hanging off their frames. It was only when I came close and poked at one with my pistol that the skin and bones fell to the ground. All over the barn, faces without eyes started back at me. But not a drop of blood or piece of flesh could be found. It frightened me. Yodorovski called me out, and told me that the men had found a pictures of the family inside. Holding out his hand, he gave me a picture of a father, a mother, a son and two daughters. He also said the bodies were those of three women, but nothing like in the picture. I ordered him to take me to the bodies.” “They were all elderly hags, with brittle bones and parchment skin, sheer terror frozen for eternity on their faces, hair white as the snow on the ground. But to look at the picture, I saw a young wife and teenaged daughters, outside on the farm with their father and brother. I could only order the men move on, but then Menshov started shouting about Baba Yaga, the old hag. I ordered him to quiet himself. We will press on.” “5thMarch. My hand shakes as I pen these words to paper. We found the source of the tracks. At first, it appeared to be the peculiar cottages of the reindeer herders, standing out in the forest. But as we approached, the men hopeful for fresher meals, it started to move, it’s legs like that of a chickens. I wanted to fire on it, but I ordered the men to hold. Whatever madness could make us all see a moving cottage, it was more powerful than anything we would be able to bring to bear. Sending Yodorovski to investigate the scene, I grabbed Menshov and ordered him to tell me everything he knew. He said that Baba Yaga was a frightening hag, a witch who flew on a giant pestle, vindictive and terrifying to behold. But he knew nothing about the reasons she would steal the youth from three other woman, and I could not help but silently agree. I then called the men together. Yodorovski said the tracks of the hut matched the tracks by the farm, and that the body of the father was at the former base of the cottage. He said the corpse was in a terrible and disconnected state, and that he advised no one to look at it. I agreed, and I quickly told the men that such a threat would not be allowed. They knew it was no political bantering like that the party throws about. They were willing to kill the evil that was stalking the forests.” “7th March. We did it. We finally killed Baba Yaga. I don’t know how a man can kill a legend, but we did. I write to ensure the true story is preserved.” “Yodorovski found the hut, and I had the men take positions around it on all sides. Raising my field glasses, I looked inside to see a woman, fliting around the place, not a hag like Mencshov had described, but not young. Middle age, with graying hair and a face of wrinkles starting to form. The boy was there too, weeping and terrified, strapped to a bed inside the cottage. I could tell his bones were broken, and knew his fate was to be much like his fathers unless we moved.” “I gave the signal to Sokolov, who fired his anti-tank rifle at the joint of the right leg. The cottage suddenly reared up, starting to move, but another round from the massive rifle broke the leg, sending the cottage collapsing to the ground. The left leg kicked futilely at the air, until it just curled in on itself, like a bug. We surrounded the cabin, cautious of the leg, and ordered the hag to release the boy and surrender. It is only now I realize that had the cabin not been magically held together, there was no chance the boy wasn’t being smothered under the weight of the bed.” “The door was ripped from it’s hinges, and I ordered the men to use our grenades on the hag. The explosions went on for a minute before I dared look out from behind the tree I took cover behind. There, on the ground, her body, now a wretched hag’s, lay on the ground atop a giant pestle. I sent Yodorovski and Menshov inside, and they yelled the cabin was clear. Once more, all manner of horrible sights were inside, and I quickly rushed to the bedroom to see about the boy. Cutting his bonds, I tried to bring him out of his wide eyed stare. But he would not come back, as the doctors will attest to. All I could do was cover the boy in my coat and take him away.” “I ordered the men build a fire, and we set the house and body alight. As we watched, the fires took on a blue hue, but it burned cold, so cold that icicles started to form around the fire. I ordered the men run, and I am not going to lie. I led the way.” “10th March. The Politburo has taken an interest in my report, and has ordered that I report to Moscow immediately. The men are still being held in their quarters, and the doctors say the boy has made no attempt to speak, and his wounds are not yet healed. I have made sure to smuggle this journal to my brother in Vladivostok. I have instructed him not to open it until he either gets news of my death, imprisonment, or that I somehow just disappear. I know he will see my story as true. If not, then all hope of the truth has been lost.” Story Seed: Will the Real Fairies Please Stand Up? So who are the real monsters when it comes to the fairies anyway? After all, when you see one monster kidnapping people and screwing with their heads, why should you see them as any better than the ones they say are the kidnappers and mutators? Well, now you have a chance to find out. A group of fae has come to you, because they think you can help them get revenge on their captor. They say they can guarantee your safe return, and even give you the secrets needed to find some hefty financial compensation for your trouble. But you’re not stupid, you can’t be when you’re on the Vigil. So how do you turn down money like they’re offering and a chance to kill an honest to God monster when you know they can easily double cross you? Are there really offers too good to pass up that you just can’t take? Story Seed: Globe Trotting So let’s say you’ve managed to chase a fairy through those mysterious doors they manage to open up, right? You run through it, chase them with the miracle of NOT getting hung up on the thorns, and you think you’ve got the monster where you want it. Then it ducks through a door and out the other side, and you run after it. Suddenly, your cell’s turf just turned into Paris, London, or any other city worldwide. Now you’re undocumented, and probably armed, foreign nationals on another nation’s soil, without any papers that would even remotely help. You might not have any contacts in that place, and you need to get out, fast. And that monster is still on the loose. Is it possible to carry out the Vigil when you’re probably wanted worldwide? Sex, Drugs, and Fairies The 1960s and 1970s were a time of change in the world. New ideas on politics, religion, and sex entered the public consciousness with a vengeance, and people sat up and took notice. Anton LaVey challenged the Christian hold on America by founding the Church of Satan, which advocated the fulfillment of self as opposed to others while not advocating worship of any “divine” being. Drugs flowed through every strata of American life like never before, opening new doors into how people comprehended the human mind. Faeries fit easily into this new upside down world, and hunters played hell tracking them down. Task Force: VALYRKIE had enough trouble with cults springing up across the country that they didn’t noticed creatures with cloven hooves spreading dream-stealing drugs around colleges nation-wide. Null Mysteriis was inundated with reports of sightings of monsters from students in drug fueled hazes, describing monsters with eyes on their fingers and prehensile tongues coming out of their elbows. Lone cells saw their communities’ dreams and hopes stolen away, to say nothing of the children who ran off and never came back. If any monster could have something considered a heyday, the fairies had it during the 1960s and 70s. File 239-S Null Mysteriis Patient Interview, 1972 A.D. Dr. Hendricks: Now Jason, why do you think that you aren’t who you are? Jason Lang: I…I see things, sir…*Sobbing* I want them to stop! Dr. H: It’s okay, Jason. Just tell me what you keep seeing. JL: I see a man, like me, but he’s not me, you know? *Sobbing* I see him with a bear’s jaws, and giant claws. *Subject makes sweeping gestures* And he’s coming after me, and I want to run away. But then the thing, it takes me in it’s arms…and it takes me away, through the thorns. Dr. H: And you think this was an effect of the hallucinogen? JL: No, because when I came out of it, my friends said I looked different. Said my eyes had changed color or something about my face was wrong. I called up my parents, but they said that my voice was someone else’s! Doc, how can they say that about their own son! Dr. H: Calm down, Jason, we’ll figure it out somehow. You just have to keep calm, alright? *Subject nods* Alright. Now Jason, can you tell me anything about this hedge? JL: Well, it’s just full of thorns, thorns and darkness. The sun, it wasn’t there at all, there was just a light, like it was coming from everywhere. And there were…things, things skirting the very edges of the place. I tried to look around, but I couldn’t see a thing! Then, it all went black, and I woke up. *Subject weeps* Doc, can’t you help me? Dr. H: Of course we will, Jason. We’ll figure out exactly why these things happened, the right way. For now, you need to take your medicine and go to sleep. *Subject nods, follows orderly out* Christ, this is gonna take forever to figure out. *Silence for ten seconds, tape resumes* Dr. H: Addition to the file for Jason Lang. Last night, in between the last bed checks of the night, orderlies discovered Mr. Lang gone, in his place plastic bags and drugs, laid out on the bed in the shape of a roughly human body, each drug apparently corresponding with a body part. Marijuana for the head, cocaine for the limbs, etcetera. The police have been told that this was a breakout by Mr. Lang’s companions, who probably left the drugs as a warning. The cell has had no luck in locating Mr. Lang. I hypothesize we never will. Story Seed: Fetching Old stories tell of how the fae left fetches, simulated people in the place of the ones they abducted, forced to live out the lives of the people they replaced. Made of trash and spare parts of whatever a fairy could find, the fetch had no idea of it’s true nature until it died. So when a man comes to you for help telling you he’s a fetch, you’re a little confused. But he says he’s got a happy life, a full life, a wife, two step-kids he loves, and a steady and fulfilling job. Now the changeling he replaced is back, and the fetch doesn’t want to lose his place in existence. Can you help? Should you help? Is there a way to resolve this at all? Story Seed: Grab’N’Go You’ve started to notice something off with someone close to you. Maybe it’s the way they’re walking, maybe it’s how they’re treating the people around them differently. Maybe it’s the fact that, after a lifetime of red meat, they’ve gone vegan in a day. Somethings up, and you’re shaking all the supernatural trees you know for answers. Then a group of people too pretty to be normal approach you. They say your friend isn’t your friend, it’s actually something called a “fetch”, and it needs to be contained or destroyed, if your real friend has any hope of regaining a normal life. They won’t say a word about who they are or what they want, they just keep badgering you about the things you need to do. Is there any grain of truth in what they’re saying? Contemporary Tales With the change of the centuries from 20th to 21st, a resurgence in fantasy literature arrived, tales of wizards and vampires leading the charge. And following these stories came fairies, a little closer to the ancient tales than a lot of people thought. Gone were the days of fairies as little women flitting about as brightly colored Marilyn Monroe caricatures, reborn were cautionary tales about dark woods, joined by deserted alleyways and decrepit warehouses. They joined tales that took decades to gain recognition. Stories about elemental spirits in Leap Castle were investigated, but whether the public that saw the tape felt it was true or not, no one knows. Still, it launched a new series of investigations into the old stories and folk tales that surrounded the modern world, sometimes at great expense. From a Publication by the Organization for the Rational Assessment of the Supernatural, Recieved by Subscribers In Project FORT. The Dreamtime? A New Look at Jung's Collective Unconscious Based On Observations On the Anatomy of Our Kind Neighbours. Professor Hanzsel Jaminson, Dr Isabella Franklin, Dr Jacob Calloway Abstract: Observational studies into the good folk often mention that the quiet folk seem to be able to appear and disappear through any door they wish. Just where the grey neighbours go to on the other side of those doors is one of the largest unanswered questions about our kind neighbours. In this paper we draw together previous research, as well as an analysis of mythology and observations about fairy magic to come to suggest the kind neighbours travel to the collective dreamscape of mankind. Finally new evidence is presented to argue that the grey people are in fact archetypes from mankind's collective unconscious who walk among us. A note is attached: This might be worth looking into, the guys at ADAMSKI swear this isn't anything of theirs. From a letter between Loyalists of Thule, intercepted by The Cheiron Group Dear Fritz, In my studies I came across a theory that the dragon in the heraldry of the British crown symbolises the loyalty of the monarchy to the devil. We are, of course, both aware that there is no dragon in the arms, the fool had misidentified the lion. Somehow it never occurred to him that the unicorn might be of occult significance, it is no great mystery why the unicorn appears in the arms, or who chained it. I have enclosed a copy of the original documents, after your latest correspondence I could not help but feel that you needed some cheer. Ever Faithful, your friend John Bergmann The Pet Shop That Wasn’t There Tomorrow Excerpt from VASCU Case File #481470-JN8, 1998 AD ...With the death of Senior Agent Charles Howell, it was deemed necessary to investigate into his case files on one “Count D”, a suspect in a various murders and “suicides”, though never formally charged with any crime. On review of the evidence compiled by Agent Howell, it has been found that there have been various “Count D’s”, the first written reference in Howell’s files referencing a “Giant Rat of Sumatra” from Victorian London, along with various other cases that have, to date, all been written in the official records as “animal attacks”. Of the victims, all had visited Count D’s shop, a pet store, before their death. Researching further into Howell’s files, it was discovered that, among the survivors, they had to agree to detailed contracts with Count D, in order to purchase an animal. The survivors, those who were not rendered mentally unsound, reported that the contracts were relatively simple in nature. One individual reported that the contract consisted of three rules for the pet’s care. Never expose it to bright light, never get it wet, and never, ever, feed it after midnight. The victim’s family was later found dead in their home, the victim himself scarred and covered in the blood and entrails of his family. When the local authorities found him, he could only mutter “They were fed.” With the permission of AD Skalmer, the victim’s memories were probed. After Junior Agent Flanagan was treated for severe paranoia and mild shock, she related the location of the former shop in Los Angeles’ Chinatown. However, the location was merely a shell, a small convenience store put in it’s place. Coordinating with the LAPD, one of their detectives was mentioned as having been with Agent Howell just before his death. The detective had taken a sabbatical from the force, and his whereabouts currently unknown. His files, however, have been copied and added to the file. As far as can be determined, this “Count D” is not a traditional murderer, in that he does not seem to take any steps to kill his victims. Instead, his victims seem to kill themselves by breaking these “contracts” he makes. Searches of various Chinese communities across the country have, as of yet, yielded no results. Story Seed: Contractual Obligations Fairies make deals, that’s certain. They make deals about what you have to give them, they make contracts that you have to follow, or else you lose a leg. If you tell them, “I want to be the best trumpet player in history”, they’ll make you one, you just have to perform every night, non-stop, until you die. If you’re lucky. So you’re worried when a family member of yours comes to you. They signed a deal with a good looking talent agent who said they would make your family member a face “no one would forget”. Now your relative is suddenly filled with murderous urges towards people they’ve never even met. Story Seed: A Spit and a Handshake The oral contract is the oldest form of contract mankind has. Since man first discovered language, the power of words to enforce another’s actions has been a powerful tool. That’s why fairies love it. Watch what you say, or else you’re going to have to rob that pharmacy, or else you lose your first born. Never mind all the poor bastards who’ve said, “I’d give my left nut for that Harley”. Now a new trend is spreading around town. People are giving a spit and a handshake for whatever they want, and all they have to do is be available to a “favor”. You found out what those favors could consist of when a mother reportedly threw her children out of a moving car, saying that it was “part of the deal”. Bell Island Hag Recording discovered by the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary, 2009 A.D. Subject 1: You’re getting this, right? Subject 2: Audio and video. Man, the networks are gonna pay top dollar for this! Subject 1: That’s not what it’s about though, it’s about finally getting the truth out, and you know that. Subject 3: Guys, we’re walking through mud and brush. I thought you said there was a path here. Subject 2: Quit complaining, this is gonna be worth a dozen pairs of those dumb sneakers you always wear. Subject 1: Okay, we’re coming up on the turn now. Do we have the iron? Subject 3: A whole fucking bag full. Do you think it’ll really be one of those and not a ghost? Subject 1: Every piece of evidence says this is definitely something cross-dimensional, and all that research says iron- *Sound, identified as twig snapping* You hear that? Subject 2: Guys, our equipment’s acting kinda funny. Subject 1: Funny how? Subject 2: It’s not spiking at all. No EMF, no infrared, nothing. I’m pointing it at my own fucking hand and it won’t read, all the equipment’s busted. Subject 3: What about the camera and recorder? Subject 4: Three to come and make the pact… Subject 2: Still working…you hear that? Subject 1: Hear what? Subject 4: Three who come, and not come back… Subject 3: I just heard it, sounded like a voice. Subject 1: What direction? Subject 2: Everywhere, like right above us! Subject 4: Will they face eternal blight? Subject 1: Fuck! *Sound of a safety on a pistol being turned* Subject 4: Or will they see tomorrow’s light? *Loud shriek, sounds of gunfire* Subject 2: Fuck! Get away from me, get away! Subject 4: The price out of my woods is steep The Hag’s good mercy’s never cheap. Subject 2: I’ll pay, I’ll pay! Just don’t do that shit to me, I’m only an inside man! *Undiscernable noise, yelling identified as Subject 2, yelling ends abruptly* Subject 4: To those who dare to walk my path Remember the Hag and her vicious wrath. (POST-IT NOTE) Victim found three days later, clothes torn and clutching a digital recorder. Remains mute and unable to relate experiences. Body shows no wounds or signs of struggle, nor identification. Unable to tell at current time victim’s identity. Search ongoing for two other subjects as well as the possible assailant. No one has come forward to identify the victim. Story Seed: An Alien Vigil You’ve done enough research to find that the fairies aren’t all pretty lights and wee people. You’ve seen them wreck enough homes with sick head games, and children going missing are too many children for you to abide. Someone has to stop these sick fuckers before they can go any further. You planned the raid, and you were ready to rock and roll with enough cold iron to last a decade. Then you found their hideout already burning, a group of freaks with horns, hooves, ice for hair and giants with sharp teeth were already cheering their victory over the fairies. They explained they were fighting the same fight, that the “loyalists” were giving the children over to their fairy masters, and that the “motley” saved the children they could, letting the children out from behind them as proof. But you know about fetches and fairy tricks from the old books. But are they really telling the truth? Have you finally found a monster that holds it’s own Vigil? Story Seed: Deal Or No Deal? You’ve captured one of the fairies, and are trying to get him to spill what he wants. When he finally broke, you got a heap of information, and quickly put it to good use, and all you had to promise was to let him live. Of course, that didn’t save his butt when you all came back alive and killed him anyway. One less freak running around. But then Jerry got hit by a car and broke his leg. Still, not a major problem, right? Then there was Sally’s broken ankle while she was walking down a flight of stairs. A little out of the ordinary, but all in all, under the realm of possibility. But it wouldn’t stop, until finally, you were nearly hit by a drunk driver who had both his headlights burnt out as he was being chased by the cops and the road was wet from the rain that had been going all day. Now you’re sure that the freak made some kind of attack on you for breaking the deal. So how can you break a contract with a monster you’ve already killed?